


The Questions Box

by Kirinin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale tempts, Crowley miracles, Fallen Angels, Gen, Historical References, Identity, Identity Issues, Impossibly slow burn, Islamic References, M/M, Repressed Memories, Repression, Role Reversal, Romance, Slow Burn, Temptation, the books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 00:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19982938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirinin/pseuds/Kirinin
Summary: What –whowould Aziraphale even be, if he Fell?  The very idea of Aziraphale-the-demon made the angel break out into a cold sweat.It's lucky then, isn't it, that a Principality has the power to manipulate the workings of even his own mind.





	The Questions Box

It started at the dawn of man.

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?” Crawley said. “Oh, it was flaming like anything!”

There was a quirk to the demon’s lip and a bit of studied nonchalance, and if Aziraphale knew him better – indeed, if Aziraphale had ever had any friends at all, ever before – he might have noticed the demon was teasing him, and enjoying it.

As it was, Aziraphale took away a few impressions of the demon Crawley, including but not limited to: _the fold of that curl, there; the sun caught in the hollow of its arc; the dimple, there; the lay of his robes_. However, it must be said that Aziraphale didn’t notice that he was noticing Crawley, but for the general impression that not all demons were so ill to look on. By the time Aziraphale’s cheeks had finished warming, he had no idea why they should have done.

Aziraphale might be forgiven for his lack of comprehension in this particular instance, as he had never blushed before; however, had he blushed a thousand times he still might have been at a loss, as the notion that Crawley was intriguing to look at never had the time to blossom into a complete thought.

* * *

“Well, hello, Aziraphale,” said Crawley, all hail-fellow-well-met.

Aziraphale startled and turned, hands folded nervously before him. He’d anticipated Crawley might show his face at a time like this, and somehow it was still incredibly startling to see the other creature in the flesh.

“So, giving the mortals a flaming sword – how did that all work out for you?”

Crawley was no longer quite so lovely; perhaps he didn’t care to put his powers to the task of keeping him clean and shining. Aziraphale was unsure how angelic and demonic powers differed. Surely, angelic powers were stronger, for that only made sense, being as they were God’s chosen –

That was quite a lot of thoughts with sharp-toothed Questions lurking just beneath them, so Aziraphale blurted, “She hasn’t mentioned it again!” in rather a squeak, and hoped Crawley didn’t note his abstraction.

“Ah, probably a good thing,” Crawley said, without even a moment’s thought – as though he already knew God wouldn’t have bothered, as though it wasn’t a central question that sat, like a beating heart, at the centre of Aziraphale: a question writ large as the sky.

“What’s this all about?” the demon went on. “Build a big boat and fill it with a travelling zoo?”

Aziraphale eyed him, weighing Crawley’s ability to stop what was about to happen. With a rising horror, he realized he _wanted_ Crawley to stop it. He wanted Crawley to use whatever demonic powers he had to counter this, this _disaster_ , and –

Shocked at himself, Aziraphale fashioned a little box in his head and stuffed the feelings inside. It was thoughts like that could make an angel Fall.

Thus, when he spoke, his voice rang fussily in his ears instead of panicked and pleading as it might’ve a moment ago. “From what I hear, God’s a bit tetchy. Wiping out the human race. Big storm.”

Everything Crawley did, every cast of his gaze, every movement of his too-flexible spine, had a feel of – Aziraphale fumbled about for the proper phrase – _the performative_. But when he turned to look at Aziraphale, then cast his gaze out at the crowd, Aziraphale thought – perhaps – he sensed hesitation and perhaps even distress. “… all of them?” Crawley said.

Aziraphale explained how it was only the locals and not even all of _them_ , his voice a thready stream of justifications and tightly packaged dread. _Help me save them_ , Aziraphale almost said. Almost said _aloud_.

Crawley proceeded to voice every doubt that lived inside Aziraphale.

So, in a desperate grab for his faith in Her in this darkest hour, Aziraphale said what he always said to himself when it strained, only now he said it aloud, where Crawley could hear:

“You can’t judge the Almighty, Crawley. Her plans are…”

“If you’re going to say _ineffable_ …”

“Precisely.”

Later, when Aziraphale’s mind whirred without respite, he found a spot on the Ark quiet all but for the rustling and lowing of the animals and tucked the Questions neatly away, one at a time. It was a surprisingly involved process, but when he opened his eyes, his innermost thoughts felt orderly again, and insomuch as an angel did, he could breathe.

* * *

When Aziraphale caught a glimpse of Craw – _Crow_ ley in Rome, his cheeks heated and his stomach, such as it was, flipped. Before he could second-guess the impulse, he was pushing his way through the crowd, a beatific smile flickering to anxiousness and back again; part of him wanted to be delighted, and freely so, but a larger part knew better.

The close-cropped, plastered-down hair didn’t suit Crowley, and the robes hid him from view without draping the way his angel’s robes had, or back when they were living in the desert, and Crowley gave off a faint aura of misery, right up to Aziraphale’s _can I tempt you…?_

Then he turned to Aziraphale and leaned back, and there was less demonic fear and more _let me take in_ all _of you_ than made Aziraphale entirely comfortable: as though Crowley were _reconsidering_ him in some fundamental way, and liked his newest conclusions far better than the old.

Aziraphale shifted from foot to foot, but then,

“All right,” said Crowley, and they went.

They walked to the restaurant in silence, which made Aziraphale wonder why he’d wanted to share a meal with Crowley in the first place. But once they’d arrived at a corner table and greeted the proprietor, Crowley turned the full force of his attention on Aziraphale and said, “so. _Food_. You like it?”

“I mean yes, I do,” Aziraphale admitted, his cheeks feeling very warm. “It’s not so angelic, I suppose. The other angels don’t eat.”

“They probably don’t know it’s any good,” Crowley said, then gestured to Aziraphale. “ _I_ wouldn’t have known it was any good, if you hadn’t said.”

The fact that Aziraphale had discovered something marvellous about the world was precisely why he’d wanted to share it. He could feel a warm sort of joy starting in his chest and working its way upward until it manifested as a shy smile and a ducked head.

Petronius only had one dish; he set the oysters in front of the two, poured cups of weak beer, and bustled away.

“…how –” said Crowley.

“Like this.” Aziraphale lifted the oyster and slurped it free of its casement. “No,” he said, and reached out for Crowley’s hand. “Like –”

The touch was so electric that it stole the words right out of the angel’s mouth. He paused, his fingers just resting lightly on the tender skin of Crowley’s wrist, wondering why he’d reached out in the first place, so _easy_ , and he looked up and there were Crowley’s golden eyes on him, his lips slightly parted as though the contact had startled him just so much as Aziraphale.

“Like this,” he said, feeling as though the only way on was forward. He tipped the oyster to Crowley’s lips; he demonstrated how much one ought to chew, and Crowley copied him with exaggerated care. And then Aziraphale lowered his hand, feeling as though something had shifted irrevocably, the earth and the heavens moving out of joint. “Good?”

“Yes, good,” said Crowley, but there was something in _how_ he said it that implicitly praised the whole of the experience and not merely the oysters themselves.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “I’m. I’m _so_ glad you like it.”

“I do,” said Crowley, though he was still looking at Aziraphale, and a line of confusion had appeared at his brow. “I think I really do.”

“Then. Then we should do it again sometime,” Aziraphale said, bravely.

“We should.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

* * *

That evening, when Azirphale returned to the vestibulum of the hall where he lived, he realized he had no memory of walking there. All he could recall were what the demon Crowley had said, the way he’d gestured with his long-fingered hands; the almost-unwilling smile on his face; the bow of his lips. Aziraphale had never wandered in a daze, before, never been so unaware of himself, never so wrapped up in another being save, perhaps, Herself.

 _Oh_ , he thought.

A human being might not be able to comprehend the existential horror that struck him once he realized that this Temptation could mean he would _Fall._

Of course, no one had fallen after the Great Fall, Aziraphale comforted himself, so there was little chance of it.

But it was also true he’d been spending all his time on earth, and he didn’t have fireside chats with the other angels, who’d never enjoyed his company. Perhaps angels had Fallen and no one had said. And it wasn’t as though he remembered Crowley ( _he would have remembered Crowley if he_ could _have, could already pick out his voice over a crowd’s, picture every curve of his face and flash of his eyes_ ), so perhaps no one _remembered_ angels after they’d Fallen. Perhaps, perhaps, _perhaps_ angels were leaving Heaven all the time but they were simply _erased_.

What – _who_ would he even _be_ , if he Fell? The very idea of Aziraphale-the- _demon_ made him break out into a cold sweat.

Frantic, he gathered all his dizzy longing up into an ethereal bouquet and stuffed it down into the box where he kept his Questions.

After, he felt immediately less panicked, though in the panic’s place there was a sharp sting of loss.

It was fine, though, he told himself firmly, his mind feeling like a once-cluttered room now dusted and tidied. He hadn’t lost anything, not really: you couldn’t lose what you’d never really had.

* * *

By the time the Arthurian Age rolled around, Aziraphale hadn’t spoken to Crowley in more than five centuries.

He’d _caught sight_ of Crowley at the grand opening of the Coliseum in Rome, but slunk away before the demon could catch sight of him in turn. When the Goths and the Huns attacked, he could have sworn that he’d seen Crowley among them, but Aziraphale had women and children to save, and Crowley was gone too fast to acknowledge, even if Aziraphale had really wanted to. But now they were in a mist-laden field, and Aziraphale had no choice but to come face to face with his Adversary once more.

The Arrangement was clearly what Crowley had been building up to in Rome, Tempting him, so it was very easy to say ‘no’ and, at least in the moment, to mean it.

* * *

In the twelfth century, Aziraphale received an important new assignment to watch over a particular human being in Andalusia, which was a perfectly pleasant place with museums and schools and a code of law and clever restaurants and pretty, sunny weather except for in the summer, when it scalded. Aziraphale was delighted, therefore, to learn that his guardianship over the human in question was to be lifelong.

Muhammad ibn Ahmad ibn Muhammad ibn Rushd – Muhammed to his friends – was a brilliant boy with wide, dark eyes, and a headful of glossy, near-black curls that begged to be tousled. What was less apparent on stumbling on the boy playing ball with his friends was that he also had a mind built like a computer, if a computer also had a remarkable and inherent talent for empathy, philosophy, medicine, and the law. Aziraphale set himself up as a wealthy foreigner, Azira Ibn Raphael – though there were those who called him Avempace – and ensured the young man had the best education money could buy.

It was just after this early triumph while watching the sunset over the beautiful homes of Cordoba that he met with Crowley again. Crowley wore a dark green silk tunic that fell to his knees, loose, black linen trousers, and a cloak of pale green. The same spectacles as before, or near enough, rested on the end of his nose.

“Crowley!” he said, feeling that now-familiar jolt, tinged with the unpleasantness of anxious guilt. “What brings you here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Crowley said, looking out at the city rather than gazing on Aziraphale. “Here to do a spot of miracling?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Aziraphale agreed. “And you? Here to do a spot of tempting?”

“Ohhhh, more than a temptation, this time,” Crowley said. He fumbled within his cloak and produced a pouch full of some resinous substance; he popped a pinch into his mouth and suckled.

“What’s that?” Aziraphale asked, curiosity twanging through him.

“It’s hashish,” Crowley explained. “Settles the nerves.”

Aziraphale felt like one, thrumming nerve around Crowley, always, and briefly considered asking after some. But then his mind jumped tracks. “Are you quite all right, then?” he said.

Crowley turned to stare, brows raised, as if to say _why bother asking?_ But he also drew back, as though to take in more of Aziraphale than before, and Aziraphale felt a curious starburst of fondness and triumph.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “That is to say, I’ve seldom seen you nervous.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, shrugging. “M’fine. Thank you,” he said, after a beat. “Thanks for asking.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, and suddenly his old fears seemed strange. Why shouldn’t he speak to Crowley, and why shouldn’t he like it? He loved all of God’s creations, and whether She or They liked it or not, that included demons, didn’t it? And if Crowley was especially pleasing, what of it, anyway? He was allowed to like oysters more than shrimp, sunset better than midday, books more than song.

“Would you,” said Aziraphale. “Would you like to go for lunch? There’s a charming place just down the road that makes the most delicious _harisa_ , and _rafis_ …”

“Harisa,” said Crowley slowly, as though he could get the flavour of the dish on his tongue.

“Oh, grain and meat stew, but it’s not ordinary stuff; they do such a bang-up job with the spices –”

“Better not,” said Crowley, with a sniff.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale.

“Fraternizing and all,” Crowley said, gazing out again over the city. “Won’t do.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale a second time. He felt as though the firmament had dropped out from underneath his feet, as though he were…

 _Falling_ was a loaded term. _Sinking_ , perhaps.

“Well, I’ll… see you around, then?” he said, rising.

Crowley looked up at him, his mouth twisted as though he’d bitten into something bitter. “Count on it,” he said.

* * *

Muhammed greeted Aziraphale gladly as he came into the garden of the family with whom the boy was staying in Marakkesh. It was a garden to befit the Garden: full of fig and citrus, branches heavy with fruit, and a million fragrant flowers. “Avempace!” he exclaimed. “Here just in time.”

“Am I?” said Aziraphale. This was a bit of a joke between them, one with its roots in his unusual comings and goings. He’d presented himself as a book-dealer, and that at least explained his frequent and prolonged absence in the boy’s life, rather than the whims of Heaven, sending him to conjure this divine miracle, thwart that demonic influence.

But the boy seemed in earnest, this time. “Meet my friend, Crowley ibn Saht Ahn.”

And there was Crowley, sitting in the garden as he’d sat in the Garden, basking like a snake in a patch of sun – though he stiffened when he caught sight of Aziraphale.

“We were just talking of the scripture,” Muhammed said earnestly.

“Is that what you were talking about with Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

“Well, all that and more,” Muhammed said, as a servant strode up to them and deferentially offered cool clay cups of water, beads of condensation gathered there. “I’ve been tasked to calculate the astrophysical properties of the potential campus – for where to build the new school, you know – and I can’t help but feel some of the _religion of the spaces_ all a bit nonsense,” he went on, taking a gulp from his cup. “Do sit, Avempace,” Muhammed urged him, “and join in our debate. I can’t help but feel your wisdom would be useful.”

“Yes, do sit… Avempace, is it?” said Crowley, blandly.

Aziraphale, jaw firming, lowered himself to sit across from them. “How can I be of assistance?” he inquired.

“You’ve known me nearly all my life,” Muhammed said. “Truly you must tell me whether I should study religion, or philosophy, law or medicine…”

“Why not religion? That’s what I say,” Crowley said idly. “Or a mix and match, and be the next Avicenna.”

“Avicenna,” the boy huffed.

“Sorry, I thought you… I thought you were quite fond of –” stammered Aziraphale.

And then the boy exchanged a glance with Crowley with which Aziraphale was all too familiar. It was rather akin to the looks angels exchanged over Aziraphale’s head so oft.

But Muhammed, who was really a very nice young man, darted his dark gaze between Aziraphale and Crowley, neglected to mention that they clearly knew each other well, and added, “we were also talking about time.”

“Time?” said Aziraphale, diverted.

“Yes,” said the boy, “the Beginning.”

“Ah,” said Crowley, leaning back. “I’d love to hear what Avempace thinks of all that.”

“The question is a fundamental one,” Muhammed explained, turning to Aziraphale, eyes flashing, hands a-gesture with a fierce, intellectual joy. “Has the universe always existed, or does it have a discrete beginning?”

“The Holy Book might say—” said Aziraphale.

“Ah!” said Muhammed, pointing. “Reason first; then scripture.”

“A new rule,” Aziraphale muttered to himself. “Very well.” He cleared his throat, focusing on the question, all too aware not just of the boy’s gaze, but of Crowley’s. “I suppose God ought to have created it at some point, so it must have a beginning.”

“But,” said Muhammed. “God had to have existed to set things in motion, so you might say human beings had a start, or a forest has a first seed, or a waterfall starts as a furrow in the earth before it is filled with rain. But the universe itself is a place and it sounds as though you believe it is a place that contains God before anything else. So the question is still the same. Was there anything there beforehand? Is there such a thing as ‘beforehand’? Or has God always been?”

Aziraphale blinked. The origins of creation were one thing; it had never occurred to him to question the origins of the Creator.

“Er,” he said. “You might wish to be… careful with questions like that, dear one,” he said, slowly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Crowley. “What’s the point in life if you won’t ask questions?”

“Very little point,” Muhammed agreed. “Come along, Avempace. Give it a go.”

Aziraphale saw there was no way out but forward. “Yes, erm. Well, it seems to me, as God is omni _present_ that this would refer to not just places but to time itself. So by that token, God has always existed, everywhere. That would mean the universe has no beginning.”

“And by that token, no end,” Muhammed replied, “as omnipresent also means _always._ Thank you, Avempace; that’s illuminating.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “I thought you weren’t starting from scripture. If not, then how do we know God’s omnipresent?”

Muhammed clucked his tongue. “Everyone knows,” he said, then paused, frowning.

Crowley pointed at him. “Exactly.”

“God has to be sufficiently powerful to,” Muhammed began, “and clever enough to…”

“ _Sufficiently_ powerful,” said Crowley. “Clever _enough_. Suppose God is from another planet of people that control time, or live far, far longer than an ordinary human. He’d seem god-like, wouldn’t he?”

“What?” said Aziraphale, whose head was spinning.

“Oh, shut up, that’ll be hilarious in another few thousand years,” said Crowley, making Aziraphale wonder if he ever _had_ travelled forward or backwards in time. But a moment later he tsked in realization. Crowley’s little joke was, in fact, an act of breathtaking hubris: people who lived far longer than humans appearing to be God, indeed!

Aziraphale turned to glare at Crowley.

Crowley waggled his eyebrows and grinned.

* * *

The next few decades were some of the busiest and happiest of Aziraphale’s long life. Over the course of his travels he had accumulated most of Aristotle’s old books, and Muhammed was the only human being he trusted to be clever enough and careful enough to keep them. Aziraphale was only unable to locate _On Governance_ , but that was all right, because he found a copy of _The Republic_ , which was basically the same in any case. Plato and Aristotle went hand-in-glove.

It was also the longest Aziraphale had ever lived in one place, and such a pleasant place, at that; and he found that nesting for awhile suited him marvellously well. Over time, he collected a favourite theatre, a handful of prized restaurants, and a number of human companions, though his favourite was and perhaps would always remain the boy, whose intellect far outstripped his years, but never seemed to learn to make others small with it.

But the longer Muhammed spent with Crowley, the more radical his thinking became.

“Look, it’s an allegory,” Muhammed told him one day when he was closer to forty than thirty. “I’m sure some of it is literal,” he said swiftly when he caught sight of Aziraphale’s gobsmacked expression. “But anything that contradicts one’s own inherent sense of logic has to be viewed as a story meant to teach a lesson. Come now, friend,” he said firmly, “do you really believe in an actual pomegranate as the manifestation of original sin? That eating the world’s first pomegranate truly caused men and women to acquire modesty and the ability to question?” He tilted his head to the side and stared into Aziraphale’s eyes, pressing for his reply.

“Yes!” he said. “I do! Why the Almighty _chose_ a pomegranate to symbolize it, I’ll never know; H…is work is ineffable, unable to be understood by man…”

“Oh, very well, Avempace; I did not mean to upset you,” Muhammed said comfortingly, and Aziraphale could tell he _meant_ it, wholeheartedly, at least the _sorry_ part, but that he wasn’t sorry for _thinking_ it at all, and his heart seemed to pool down into his toes. “In any case, I must go; I’m late for court.”

Because somehow, he had become a judge, and a scholar, and a lawyer, _and a clinical doctor_. The boy had produced three medical treatises, seven on philosophy, two on law, and two on religious thought _so far_ , and if Aziraphale had anything to say about it, he was only a third of the way through his life.

* * *

“Wonderful news, Avempace!”

“Oh?” Aziraphale set a scrap of silk into his book before closing it to smile up at his friend.

“I’ve been taken on by the caliphate!” he enthused. “I’ll be able to finish going through the Aristotle, now.” Muhammed had set about summarizing, expounding, and finally providing a series of elaborate philosophical spin-offs on Aristotle’s work that was, so far as Aziraphale’s thoughts extended, logically flawless. Muhammed frowned. “And countering some of the other religious philosophers, though I imagine they won’t praise me for that. Crowley helped me achieve the position.”

Aziraphale felt his lips press tight together. “Did he, now?”

Muhammed sighed. “I do not know what this is between you, but tell me if Abu Nuwas writes of it.”

Aziraphale blushed. “Er,” he said.

“My dearest friend,” Muhammed said. “What’s this hesitancy all in aid of? It’s uncommon, maybe, but not – it won’t get you into any kind of _trouble_ ,” he said, kindly, and Aziraphale battled a surge of denial so visceral that he almost threw up.

Somehow he made his excuses, somehow he made his goodbyes. He stumbled back home – for home it was, after living there off and on for decades – and, thoughts racing, he settled down to tuck it all away again.

But every Question Muhammed conjured was connected to _knowing_ the man, to helping and guiding him; every quirk of Crowley’s lips, every moment that Aziraphale wanted to take him by the shoulders and press him angrily to the wall and… something… was all interwoven with their discussions of philosophy and the law. For the first time, there was nothing he could tuck away to make his thinking more orderly, nothing that would excise parts of him without irretrievably damaging the rest.

So Aziraphale lay flat on his bed and meditated on _ruqood_ , the long sleep, and closed his eyes.

* * *

“Aziraphale. Aziraphale, _wake up_.”

There was only one person who still called him that. Aziraphale rolled out of bed and launched to his feet, blinking the spots away from his eyes. He must’ve slept after his and Muhammed’s last conversation, he must’ve –

“ _Aziraphale!_ ”

Aziraphale blinked rapidly and Crowley resolved before him. He was wearing something quite different, so the fashions must’ve changed. “How long –” he said.

“No time, no _time_ for that, now,” Crowley growled, and bodily hauled him out blinking into the sunshine.

Aziraphale saw a plume of smoke nearby; Crowley’s grip slid down to his wrist, but he was too dazed to feel much of anything at all except bewilderment. It was only when he saw what the citizens of Marakkesh were burning that he stumbled forward, as though he hoped to save books that were already mostly ash, and then to his knees. “Is, is he _alive_?” he demanded, looking up at Crowley through tear-filled eyes.

Crowley blinked behind his slim spectacles and his throat worked. “I think,” he said. “I think so, it’s, it’s banishment.”

“But… his patron… Au Yaqub Yusef –”

“Died, just a few months back,” Crowley said. His serpentine gaze darted around the square, where grim-faced men were dropping copy after copy of Muhammed’s books into the flames, where women were shaking their fists, lips twisted with disgust. “This is,” said Crowley, faintly, “my _fault_. I made him Question, I made him –”

“We’ll get him back,” Aziraphale said.

“We – what?” said Crowley, blinking down at him in surprise.

Aziraphale stood, dusted himself off, took Crowley by the arm without hesitation. “Come away,” he said. “Come on.” He shooed Crowley back, until they stood together in an alleyway. Crowley leaned against the alleyway wall for support, and after a moment, Aziraphale leaned back, too, pressing their shoulders together. “We’ll get him back,” he said again, firmly.

“I can’t,” Crowley said, “I can’t do this.”

“You can,” Aziraphale began. “ _We_ can –”

“I can’t _ruin someone’ssss life_ ,” Crowley hissed angrily. “I can’t _pick someone_ to be the target of hell; it’s another Job, do you see? We can’t yank the threads of someone’ssss _exissstence_ like this, it isn’t _fair –”_

“All right. All right,” Aziraphale said.

“Why couldn’t you have just _taken the deal_?” Crowley said, rounding on him. “Why couldn’t you just accept the Arrangement? If you had, then none of this would’ve happened!”

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale replied. “I’m so sorry, of course you’re right. I’ll do it from now on, of course I will; only, don’t go on, so.” He realized he was reaching out for Crowley just in time to stop himself, but he didn’t; instead, he pressed his palm to the side of Crowley’s cheek.

“Don’t –” Crowley whispered, even as his eyes fluttered shut and he pressed into Aziraphale’s touch.

Aziraphale was left unsure what it was that he wasn’t supposed to be doing, so he whispered, “all right, all right,” in turn, until Crowley’s forehead was pressed to his, until Crowley was trembling and his breath was hitching, and Aziraphale felt as though he could tip over into Crowley at any moment, and it shivered through him that they’d been here together on the edge of Falling a surprising number of times. “We’re going to fix it,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley nodded and buried his head at Aziraphale’s shoulder, and shook.

* * *

Aziraphale stayed with Muhammed in exile. Muhammed had guessed his friend was not quite human by then, and asked him incessant questions while Crowley worked at charming the new calif.

“I don’t understand,” he told Aziraphale one lonesome day. “I pursued knowledge and understanding all my life. I pointed out the flaws in others’ reasoning and I did it with grace; I never rubbed anybody’s face in it.” He paused to pull a hand down his own face, shaking his head. “I wrote how many books?”

“Eighty,” Aziraphale said faintly. “Eighty books.”

“How many have survived?” Muhammed asked. “The burning.”

“I don’t,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t know, I – I didn’t think to hunt for them.”

“Don’t you know everything?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “If I did, don’t you think I would’ve saved you from this?”

“I’m not sure,” said Muhammed, lips twisting bitter. “It’s ineffable.”

The breath left Aziraphale like he’d been punched.

“I did as God asked, as He wanted.”

“She,” said Aziraphale.

“Goodness, what does it matter, a being like that?” Muhammed sighed. “I argued that God must be good and generous, I glorified her in my works. I opened schools, Aziraphale. And now what? In the final years of my life, I am disgraced.”

Crowley returned one day in early autumn, triumph writ in his face, but it fell when he saw their friend’s sunken cheeks, the despairing slope of his shoulders. By that point, Muhammed was in his early seventies and the years of exile and his age meant his health was failing him.

“I, I did it?” Crowley said.

“Oh, my dear, that’s _wonderful_ ,” said Aziraphale, but Crowley only had eyes for Muhammed.

“You may return,” said Crowley, “under the protection of the new calif.”

“Oh, can I. Well, banished and summoned back again, like a misbehaving dog.” He rose to his feet slow and trembling and Crowley darted forward to support him, his features falling into heartbreak.

Muhammad ibn Ahmad ibn Muhammad ibn Rushd died three months later, at home.

* * *

Generally speaking, most beverages Aziraphale had consumed over the years were a little fermented. The low alcohol content kept the wellwater from being infected with who-knows what, for one, and so the locals considered it wholesome. Aziraphale had imbibed a great deal of alcohol in his day.

This, however, was Aziraphale’s first flirtation with drunkenness: at a bar in Marakkesh, with Crowley the demon.

“No individuals,” said Crowley, who was already a little sloshed and who was tossing his mug back with the clear intention of getting blind drunk. “Never again.”

“Never again,” said Aziraphale, and tapped his mug to Crowley’s.

They drank.

“You’ve got to let me know if you’re going to go to sleep for any length of time like that,” Crowley ordered.

“Easily done,” Aziraphale said. “I’m not sleeping again.”

“Really?” said Crowley. “I rather like it, myself –”

“Never,” said Aziraphale.

“All right,” said Crowley in a low, gentling voice.

“I agree to curse things once in a while, so long as you’ll bless them now and again.”

Crowley nodded loosely. “I agree to… _blessss_ things,” he said with reflexive disgust.

“You _can_ , right?” Aziraphale probed.

“You _can_ tempt, right?” Crowley said in a mocking imitation.

“Let’s test it out, then,” Aziraphale said.

“Like what?” Crowley muttered. “I’m not… souring anybody’s milk, or anything.”

“ _Souring milk_?” Aziraphale sputtered. “In any case, if there’s any souring, I’m to be doing it, remember?”

“Oh,” Crowley said, with an air of great concentration. “Oh, yeah.”

Aziraphale felt his lips tug upward; Crowley was surprisingly sweet with his guard down. “Come on, let’s see if there’s anyone in here in need of a blessing…”

“They’re all _blessed_ ,” Crowley growled, and for just a moment, something dark reared itself in Aziraphale’s chest in answer, like a wolf answering the howl of another.

“Yes, well, that’s as may be,” was what Aziraphale contented himself with. “But do try.”

Crowley cast his gaze drunkenly about the pub before he lit on a server, her eyes blank and cold. “That one,” he said. “That’s one o’ mine.”

“Right, which means –”

“That she needs a blessssing more than anyone,” Crowley cut in.

“Oh. Oh yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, and he wasn’t dissembling. In that moment, Crowley’s logic seemed unassailable.

Crowley tilted his head to one side, wriggled his fingers, and the girl paused, mid-motion.

Her gaze came unstuck. She blinked, several times, as if in shock.

Then, her brown eyes brimmed.

She set the tray down, over-careful, removed her apron and dashed out the door in tears.

“What,” said Aziraphale, “what was…?”

“Back home to her mum,” Crowley said, wisely, and took a long pull from his cup.

“ _Crowley_ ,” said Aziraphale, “I’m moved beyond words.”

“And yet you’re still speaking,” Crowley quipped, but there was a twinkle in his eye and a grin stretched across his mouth like he couldn’t quite contain it.

This was the first time in his existence that Aziraphale was aware of being warmly teased. His own lips twitched, then quivered, as his level of drunkenness sat him on the knife’s edge between hopeless affection and maudlin sorrow.

“Now you,” Crowley ordered, and Aziraphale gazed about the pub.

It must be said that, at this point, Aziraphale had no conscious thought of _being_ Tempted; that he was about to perform a temptation himself, like a demon; that he had feared, with a truly existential dread, just this sort of thing coming to pass, not so long ago; or at least, not so long ago as Angels reckon.

Instead, what he thought was how intriguing a prospect this was, the very thought of doing something entirely new, using his powers in a way he’d never considered. He thought how wonderful it was that he and Crowley were – well, not friends, that was taking it too far – but partners, compatriots. There was also a bolstering sense of self-sufficiency that he and Crowley were finally figuring things out, together. It lent Aziraphale a satisfaction he hadn’t experienced since the first time he managed to blend in with a group of human beings.

It was at that moment a man from across the pub raised his voice and shook his fist mere inches away from the nose of the serving boy.

Reflexive disapproval made it surprisingly easy for Aziraphale to wave his hand; the aggressive man fell forward, the boy dashing out of his grip just in time; the man caught his foot on a flagstone and windmilled forward, banging his chin against the hardness of the floor, and after his tablemates had finished laughing, they agreeably began to drag him away from the establishment.

“Oopsies,” Aziraphale said with a grin.

“More of a curse than a temptation, but you and me are gonna do just fine, angel,” Crowley said. Aziraphale could tell he wasn’t surprised, because he didn’t lean back to reassess. Instead, he leaned forward, pillowing his chin in one hand. Closer. “And no comments to Below.”

“Or Above.”

“Well, of course. Good,” Aziraphale said faintly.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, smile growing. “Good.”

* * *

After Marakkesh, it was harder to tell what belonged in the Box and what should live outside of it.

All Muhammed’s questions, so important to interacting with him, to playing on his genius to guide the world, were tucked away without hesitation, like precious keepsakes under a grandmother’s bed. But the bits to do with Crowley…

His smile, his laugh, Crowley deep in concentration, Crowley beside himself, the tang of burnt wood pulp on Aziraphale’s tongue –

Oh, definitely _that_ part could go… couldn’t it?

But certain things simply _had_ to stay, or the Agreement couldn’t work. And it was imperative that it did, that they never have another Muhammad ibn Ahmad ibn Muhammad ibn Rushd. And he held that there was nothing wrong with _liking Crowley’s company_ , or even, well, maybe a little of liking Crowley _himself_. But the way it felt to _hold_ Crowley, the flutter of his dark lashes clumped with tears, the way he’d said _no_ and leaned _in_ …

It wasn’t the memory so much as the way it had all made Aziraphale _feel_ , and the strange impression of visiting a place he’d been to, before, familiar as Heaven. And it was all when he’d promised to engage in the Agreement. Without those feelings, would his decision to work with Crowley make any sense to him?

There was nothing for it, Aziraphale eventually decided, jaw firming. Unless he wanted to Fall, he’d have to tuck it all away.

There would simply be some aspects of who he was, decisions he had made, that were ineffable, even to himself.

The next time he saw Crowley, his mind was orderly and unquestioning, but his heart leapt, an eager smile tugged naturally at his lips, and his eyes squinched quite out of his control.

Crowley, on seeing the light of clear welcome shining from Aziraphale, turned to him and blossomed like a lotus in the sun.

* * *

“You,” said Aziraphale, “are up to no good.”

“Obviously,” said Crowley. Elizabethan garb sorted him, but then, everything did, Aziraphale thought fondly. “You’re up to good, I take it?”

The interaction felt stilted, Aziraphale thought. Surely they had more to say to one another than this. He remembered only last century that they’d been laughing together over a bottle of wine, and something…

He tried to recall what had happened; he must’ve been very drunk.

“I have to be in Edinburg next week, a couple of blessings to do,” Aziraphale went on, trying to move back into their previously friendly space with a bit of chat. “Apparently, I have to ride a _horse_.”

And, sensing the change in tone, Crowley provided some exaggerated commiseration. “And I’m heading to Edinburg too, this week,” he added, almost casually.

 _Oh! Let’s go together, then,_ Aziraphale opened his mouth and _nearly said_.

What was _wrong_ with him?

“Bit of a wasted effort, both of us going all the way to Scotland,” Crowley was going on, while Aziraphale’s head spun.

Could an angel have a headache?

“You aren’t suggesting what I _infer_ that you’re _implying_ ,” Aziraphale managed.

“Well, we’ve done it before. Dozens of times, now,” Crowley said, pouting a bit, and Aziraphale’s brain stuttered.

_Dozens?_

“The Arrangement –”

“Hush!” said Aziraphale. He was trying to think.

No, the demon was exaggerating, had to be. Dozens of times? Why, he only recalled three or four. Though… when he focused, he could tell… there were memories, _feelings_ , stretching and straining to break free…

“Our head offices don’t care how things get done,” Crowley was saying, and a buzz was building in Aziraphale’s skull, like bees swarming behind his eyes. Suddenly, the pressure became too much, and something strange slipped out.

“But Crowley,” he heard himself say, imploringly. “If _your_ head office finds out, they won’t just be _angry_. They’ll destroy you!”

The idea, _Crowley, destroyed_ , made the backs of Aziraphale’s eyes prick and his hands tremble.

“Nobody ever has to know,” said Crowley, leaning forward confidentially. “Toss you for Edinburg…”

Aziraphale took in a shaky breath, but with the admission the pressure receded, and he could think again. “Oh, very well. Heads,” he said.

And when it was tails, and Aziraphale’s face fell, so too did Crowley’s; and when the opportunity to perform a Miracle on Hamlet arose, Crowley clearly didn’t think twice. Instead, he waved his hand and it was done, and Aziraphale felt shaky and puzzled and warm all over.

* * *

And there were other times of course, but often Aziraphale felt it all came down to the Nazis.

Crowley leapt into the church to save his life, and that in and of itself was baffling enough, so much so that Aziraphale accused Crowley of working with the Germans before his common sense reasserted itself. And then Crowley managed to signal to him just what they were to do, and Aziraphale felt a sense of fellowship suffuse him, sharp enough and tinged with enough relief that it made his eyes water: a sort of _you, thank God it’s you; thank God you’re here_.

And then: Crowley saved the books.

A recollection rose up from the depths of Azirapale’s long memory.

He was sitting alone, shoulders hunched inward, the sun hot on his shoulders and the back of his neck; his feet in their sandals prickled and stung. Crowley sat beside him on the stair that led to the upper levels of the house in Marakkesh, a step or two above. His whole body curled towards Aziraphale’s in sympathetic misery.

“The books,” Aziraphale was saying, wretchedly. “His _life’s work_ , Crowley. I’ve looked everywhere, but there are only a few left. I’ve found six. Of _eighty._ ”

“I know, angel, I know,” Crowley said.

“You _don’t_!” Aziraphale said, burying his face in his hands. “I’ve failed him, and I’ve failed Heaven. If you hadn’t Tempted him so well, I wouldn’t… but no, no, it’s not _your_ fault,” he said, suddenly. “Oh, don’t let me hurt you in my despair. I only mean that you’re so much _better_ at this than I am.”

“Now, that’s not true,” Crowley countered.

“It is!” Aziraphale wailed. “I’m useless. I’m not even a proper angel – I keep having these thoughts…”

Crowley stilled. “What _kinds_ of thoughts.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale muttered, waving his hand. “Nothing to concern yourself over. It’s just, sometimes I think I must’ve been _built_ wrong.”

Crowley had achieved the stillness unique to angels and demons, the stillness of no heartbeat, no breath in the lungs. “You were created by God, Aziraphale. Mistakes are impossible.”

“Oh, weren’t _you_ created by Her? You’re still a demon, you still _Fell_ ,” Aziraphale snapped, a lifetime’s training in logic and his distress making one of his Questions escape its confines and make a break for freedom. “So either She makes mistakes or she likes us to suffer, take your pick.”

“What?” said Crowley, perfectly blank-faced.

Aziraphale sat up and looked about, as though he had suddenly realized where he was; as though he was blinking away a terrible nightmare. “What did I just say?” He shook his head. “Oh…! Of course you’re right. It’s just… the books, you see.”

“The books,” said Crowley. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t reach out. “All right, angel. I understand.”

“…ittle demonic miracle of my own,” said Crowley in the here-and-now. “Lift home?”

Aziraphale clutched the books to his chest and stared after Crowley for a solid minute before he could follow, his heart too full for words.

* * *

After that, maintaining the contents of the Box was next door to impossible. Aziraphale would stuff a feeling or a Question down inside, and two would leap free, like eager puppies.

He thought about Crowley all the time, now, helplessly, and with increasing desperation. Thought of holding his hand, touching his face; thought of tucking his arm into Crowley’s, sweeping back Crowley’s hair with tender fingers. He dared not think any further, even in the relative privacy of his own thoughts.

And so Aziraphale also thought, endlessly, of the Fall. Of which one, niggling little thought or action it would be that would tip him over the edge and into Perdition. He did not sleep, and so he had no nightmares; but it danced behind his eyes when he blinked, and when his thoughts dared to wander: the indescribable pain of his Grace being excised and his wings burning black as soot. He thought of his moral centre suddenly knocked askew; he thought of knowing right from wrong, but no longer _caring_. Wanting chaos and discord, blood and pain. Being so miserable out of heaven’s light that the only thing that would relieve the pain was making someone else hurt, too.

And perhaps, he would think, dizzily, not knowing himself, not _remembering_. Not knowing _Crowley_.

Aziraphale had a bookshop now, in Soho, and a favourite restaurant (the Ritz), and arguably his life had never been more comfortable. And yet, he had never teetered quite so close to his wit’s end.

When he brought Crowley the holy water as a thank-you (for the books, for… everything they almost-were to each other), Crowley didn’t scoff or accuse Aziraphale of plotting as Aziraphale nearly wished he would. Instead, he assumed a mien that was growing familiar with much use. He tilted his head to the side, and pouted a bit, but clearly on _Aziraphale’s behalf_ , empathizing with Aziraphale so cleanly that it felt like being cracked open and read and consumed, and suddenly it was all threatening to burst out of him, every Question, every _longing_ , and he couldn’t-couldn’t- _couldn’t_ —

“You go too _fast_ for me, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, breathless, and Crowley startled, and Aziraphale realized that Crowley had taken that _nearly_ but not quite the way he’d meant.

* * *

Warlock was something else altogether.

To start with, they mostly lived as good (or evil) examples, and there was very little manipulation in Warlock’s upbringing, merely influence.

Second, Warlock was ordinary rather than extraordinary. He performed no dazzling feats, unlike Muhammed, who had memorized the largest textbook of law word-for-word when he was twelve.

And finally and most importantly, there was the sense that they weren’t opposed, but working in tandem somehow, ensuring that the boy was tough enough to survive and tender enough to want and enjoy living well.

Aziraphale knew that everyone thought the gardener and the nanny were ‘courting’.

For the first time, he let people think whatsoever they liked.

* * *

After it was all over, the Antichrist chasing away Satan – _Satan!_ Aziraphale thought – after he’d faced them all down with his flaming sword and Crowley with his tire iron, and the three of them all hand-in-hand – after that, what point was there in keeping a lockbox in one’s head? thought Aziraphale, cup of hot chocolate going cold at his elbow. Everyone knew, now, that he was a traitor, that when it came down to it, he’d chosen humanity and _Crowley_ , a demon, over the rest of creation. There was no Heaven or Hell, only _our side_ versus _theirs_. Aziraphale felt this fiercely and truly and knew there was no longer any use in pretence.

Almost outside of his own body, he saw himself reach for the telephone, dial Crowley’s number and wait. “Could you come at your earliest convenience?” he said, and hung up without waiting for an answer.

Aziraphale slumped to the floor, his back pressed up against his squishiest armchair. He laughed a little in the face of destiny.

Then, he flung open the Box.

* * *

Aziraphale heard the shop door open and close, and shortly thereafter Crowley was looking down at him as he sprawled on the floor.

“…angel?” he said.

“Hmm? _No_ , guess again,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley sat down by his head, looking perturbed. “You’re on the floor, Aziraphale; I don’t know you’ve noticed.”

“Did _you_ know,” said Aziraphale, “that there’s no such thing as ineffability?”

“I – what?” said Crowley.

“No. Such. Thing,” said Aziraphale. “If one knows everything, what’s the point in _doing_ anything, what’s the point in _saying_ anything, what’s the point in _making_ anything? What’s the point of flawed creations when you know precisely all the mistakes they’ll make, aeons before they make them? There can’t be a _goal_ , to that, a _point –_ you’re beautiful,” Aziraphale said, suddenly, reaching out to drag his fingers along the side of Crowley’s surprised face. “Did I ever tell you?” He frowned in consternation. “No. No, of _course_ not, I wouldn’t’ve. You are, though, you know, every single part of you. I could write sonnets.”

“A-Aziraphale,” stammered Crowley, flushing. “What… what have you taken?”

“I’ve taken six thousand _years!_ ” Aziraphale moaned. “And you know, if God is omnipotent she can’t be _good_ , because look at all the suffering in the world. Look at all the suffering that She knew would happen before she even began! She must think it’s all right; we must be like _ants_ to Her, she mustn’t care one way or the other.”

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley, evenly. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.” His throat worked, and then he said, in a very different voice, “you’re scaring me.”

“So if she’s omnipotent, she’s _evil_ , or at least _not good._ And if she’s good, she can’t know everything, because if she did, why is there so much _suffering?_ I mean, what would be the point?”

“Yess, that’s a very old argument,” Crowley said. “I wasn’t aware you knew of it.”

“And what’s the point of linear time to her, anyway, if she knows all things that will ever happen? Why not make me Fall the moment I clapped eyes on you? Or the moment after I was made. Or why make me at all?”

“I’m sorry,” said Crowley. “ _What_.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and sat up. “Didn’t I say?” The wings that sprouted out of his back were black as pitch, blacker than Crowley’s: _Vanta black_. “Oh!” he said, giggling for a moment, before cutting himself off viciously, because Crowley’s face looked, suddenly, like he believed he was being laughed _at_. “Oh, Crowley… your _face –”_

But then Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, shuddering. “This is my fault? This is _my fault_.”

“No, no, aren’t you _listening_?” Aziraphale demanded. “It’s not your fault; it’s _how I was made_. I saw you in the Garden, your hair and your eyes and your smile and I was gone in an instant, Fallen and just waiting for gravity’s pull. You had all my questions on the Ark, at the Cross, in Marakkesh: you were always the voice of my own dissent, Crowley, and you were _so lovely_. So _perfect_ …” He paused. “For me,” he tacked on. “Perfect _for me_. Your hair shines like firelight and your eyes, and your hands, and gosh, the way you _move_ , but it’s all so very much besides the point, you know? I love you,” he said. “I love you. I love you. You should know.”

Crowley drew back to gaze on him, eyes scanning his features.

“For a long time, I kept you in a little lockbox inside my brain, along with every less-than-holy thought I’ve ever had. I was cutting away bits of myself so long I scarcely know myself, now it’s all returned…

“And I knew I was Falling, I had to, you know, I thwarted Heaven and Hell and worked with the actual Antichrist and a demon to make it happen, but even that wasn’t it, you know, it was just. It was about time. I just wanted to finally be myself, to be all of me.” He stood, pulling Crowley up with him, and took one, large step back, but he kept possession of both of Crowley’s hands. “This is me,” he said, and extended the wings to their full length, and the blackness surrounded them, absolute, like the space between the stars, like being entirely lost in thought, like the world behind closed eyes before waking.

“Wear one another’s faces,” said Crowley, suddenly. “The Prophesy.”

“She _was_ right about everything else…” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes as he turned to Crowley, sizing him up. “Well?”

“Well, what? Ohhhh no,” Crowley said, bringing his hands up in negation. “It’s one thing to Fall, angel; it’s another to climb.”

“Oh? You can do it,” said Aziraphale, innocently. “I have faith in you.”

“What?” said Crowley. “No. I mean. It’s impossible. Isn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Aziraphale, and stalked across the room to Crowley, relishing the little gulp he issued. “Dearest,” he said, fondly.

“Grkk,” said Crowley, when Aziraphale’s hands landed lightly on his waist.

“Relax, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, gently. “Take a breath. Despite it all, it’s still me. The Ritz, St James’s Park, remember?”

Crowley’s eyes closed despite the faint line of anxiety at his brow. When Aziraphale leaned forward to rest their foreheads together, he issued a funny little breath, and went lax in Aziraphale’s arms.

“See? That’s better,” Aziraphale said. “Mm, dearest; do you suppose you’ve done more miracles or temptations in the past millennia or so?”

“Oh, miracles, definitely,” said Crowley faintly.

“Picking up my slack, were you?” Aziraphale inquired, indulgent.

“No,” Crowley countered, a thread of irritation entering his voice. “It’s just…”

“Shh.”

“It’s just,” said Crowley, hushed. “They’re easier. Temptations are long affairs. Miracles are, _poof!_ you’re done.”

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale again. “But supposing I asked you if you’d done more good in the world, or more ill. Over the past millennia. As an example.”

Crowley’s lips parted indignantly, but then he paused.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “Now, you just finished saving all of humanity from the end of the world,” Aziraphale went on, his voice low, methodical, hypnotic. “And how many times have you saved my life, personally?”

“I don’t… dunno,” Crowley muttered. “But that’s different. I laaaaer,” he said, which is what someone says if they _start_ to confess their love before common sense prevails.

“Can you feel love?” Aziraphale inquired. He’d started a little rocking motion back and forth, and to his surprise and great pleasure, Crowley began to lean almost all his weight into Aziraphale.

“Can _you_?”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale. “It’s a bit more possessive than I’m used to, a bit more selfish. But it’s love.”

“Then… so c’n I,” Crowley agreed. “Gosh, this’s nicccce.”

“Isn’t it?” said Aziraphale. “One more question.”

“Anything,” Crowley breathed, which filled Aziraphale up with the _nicest_ feeling imaginable.

“Tell me what you want, not just in this instant, but for, oh, the next fifty years.”

“Want to… live with you. Somewhere quiet. Lotsa plants,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale drew back, and was pleased to see Crowley blinking at him, dazed. “Oh, Crowley, darling, you’re a terrible excuse for a demon.”

“Hey!”

“You’re the only one without rotting flesh or animal companions or flies buzzing about his head,” Aziraphale observed. “You have all the airs of someone who thinks being bad means ‘black’ and ‘leather’.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Crowley said, dangerously.

“Do you suppose people Fall because they _believe_ they’re going to?” Aziraphale mused. “If so, then the opposite way might work. It follows. So give it a go. For me, will you?” Aziraphale inquired, taking Crowley’s hand. “Come on…”

“What the… he- heav- what on earth is it that you want me to say?” Crowley growled. “That I’m unhappy being a demon? We all are! Or is it that I’m miserable without you? Or that I like doing things that are _good_ , that I _like it_ when you call me _nice_ , and how much I like it is the only part I don’t like? That I’m relieved the world is still here, and not just because it still has coffee and Bentleys and crepes and _you_? That I want to retire somewhere quiet where I can always have you close by, r-reading a book a-and… and…” He shuddered to a halt. “Angel, this is cruel.”

“But effective,” said Aziraphale, his grin slanting wicked.

“W-what?” Crowley shook out his wings and they were shining with the cold whiteness of heaven, and the once-empty spot in his chest was brimful with Grace. “Angel,” he said wonderingly. “That was a first-class temptation!”

Aziraphale nodded to acknowledge the compliment. “Beginner’s luck, my dearest.”

* * *

“So,” Gabriel told Aziraphale. “With one act of treason, you averted the war.”

“Wellll,” said Aziraphale, apeing his former demeanour as best he could, “I think the greater good –”

“Don’t talk to me about the Greater Good, Sunshine,” Gabriel snapped, the capital letters inherent in his voice. “I’m the Archangel _fucking_ Gabriel.”

Under the guise of straightening his jacket and fixing his bowtie, Aziraphale brushed up against the edge of Gabriel’s thoughts, then poked and prodded until his theory was confirmed.

There was, in fact, a lockbox tucked within Gabriel’s mind, twin to Aziraphale’s own, cracked open just enough for the curse and the pride to have slipped free.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to reconsider?” Aziraphale inquired with a faint smile. “We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake.” _One, last chance,_ he thought, _which is more than you deserve._

“Well, for _Heaven’s_ sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors,” said Gabriel, choosing the very wording most likely to obliterate the last of vestiges of Aziraphale’s reservations. “So. Into the flame.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “ _Lovely_ knowing you all. May we meet on a better occasion,” he said. _Sooner than you think._

“Shut your mouth, and die already,” Gabriel replied.

And just as Aziraphale stepped into the flames…

He _yanked_ Gabriel’s mind open wide.

* * *

Crowley returned, smiling beatifically. “That was brilliant,” he said. “I asked Hell for a rubber duck. And Micheal miracled me a fresh towel.”

“Is that so?” said Aziraphale smugly. “Gabriel told me to ‘shut up and die’.”

“You could probably kill him at this point without a great deal of remorse,” said Crowley, idly.

“No, likely not,” Aziraphale replied. “But I did do something… rather worse.”

* * *

It spread, was the thing.

Gabriel wasn’t the sort to enjoy being the _only_ one to have Questions for which there were no answers, so he convinced or tricked the others into removing the barriers in their own heads until there was a cadre of disaffected angels and a Second Great Rebellion, and then a bunch of newly-fallen angels and a bunch of human-affiliated loners like Aziraphale and Crowley.

One day, Crowley came home to find Aziraphale sitting alone in his bookshop, slender glasses perched at the end of his nose, gaze glued to a book, parsing it like scripture. Even now, this was not at all out of the ordinary, but when Aziraphale looked up, his gaze was faintly flustered and apologetic.

“It occurred to me,” he said, slowly, “that when you recommend a much-beloved novel or watch a film you’ve seen a half-dozen times with someone new, you get enjoyment from _their_ enjoyment, even though you know precisely what’s coming next. So _She_ may know what’s coming next while still genuinely enjoying our delight in discovering it for the first time. And that would have to mean that she’s very fond of us.”

“And then you were back,” said Crowley.

“And I’m back,” agreed Aziraphale, shaking out his wings. “Mostly.”

They were white and black and grey speckle, with a hint of iridescence, like an Old English raven’s, or a pidgeon’s.

Crowley tilted his head to the side. “They suit you,” he said.

“Thank you, my dearest,” said Aziraphale. “And speaking of things that suit, I think I may have found a cottage that suits us both. In the South Downs,” he said. “That is, unless I move too fast?”

“No,” said Crowley, reaching out for Aziraphale’s hand and pressing it close. “No, I rather think you’re just my speed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh, this fandom! There's so much beautiful stuff coming out right now that I honestly couldn't resist. And apparently I have two modes: 10-year fic (see _Game of Chess_ ) and five hour fic: this one, written in one sitting. Yeah.
> 
> You should look up the historical figure in question; he is a real man, and yes he was 100% that amazing.
> 
> Someday I may expand this story, I had so many thoughts about Aziraphale along these lines. If not, there may be a spin-off, alternate universe. 
> 
> Comments welcome!


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